


Light, Burn, Ash, Suck

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boots - Freeform, Cigar Kink, Cigar Play, Cigars, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Eating Ash, Face Slapping, Fetish, Finger Sucking, Human Ashtray, Humiliation, Kink Meme, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, M/M, Objectification, Possessive Behavior, Ritual, Strict Dominant, Submission, following orders, kicking, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a request for cigar play on the kink meme. One of my favorite personal kinks, I couldn't help but indulge in fic form. Sherlock has a strong kink, and while John doesn't want to practice it in quite the way he imagines, it's still well worth his while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light, Burn, Ash, Suck

It starts with a trip to a cigar bar. Sherlock isn’t even present, but John goes out with his friends to celebrate the new year and when he returns Sherlock smells smoke on him and has to focus very hard not to just put his hand on his cock right there. John’s never been good enough to observe Sherlock’s fetishistic interest in smoking; he thinks it’s just a naughty habit. He doesn’t know how Sherlock used to watch older men on their smoke breaks at far too young an age, fantasizing over the house help and imagining himself on his knees with a bit of rough in the form of a hasty blowjob and a man paid by his parents smoking lazily over his head. He doesn’t know that Sherlock started smoking in the first place mostly because he wanted to be  _around_ smokers, how the smell of smoke evokes an almost Pavlovian response in him. He doesn’t know that for Sherlock, as much as he enjoys watching a handsome man smoke a cigarette, cigars are the ultimate in perversion. The ritual of the experience, the opportunities for submission and service and degradation all in one shiny package—it’s something he discovered long before the Internet age, as his posh peers came of age and learned to smoke Cubans in the drawing room at dinner parties, but porntube has made his filthy desires distinctly more accessible in visual format.

Before streaming video, Sherlock didn’t know about the whole subculture around cigars within the wider gay male kinky community. He certainly fantasized about being on his knees, about lighting a man’s cigar for him, even about ash on his skin, but it was the Internet where he learned that there are so many more options for a cigar fetishist. He has a massive collection of downloaded video and links on his laptop, easily hidden from John behind a simple password layer, featuring everything from polite naked boys looking lovingly up at their smoking masters to a particular favorite of his where the boy is forced to suck ash off a leather Daddy's cock, then shoved to the floor with a boot on his neck, his tongue out and begging for more of the gritty residue. Sherlock doesn’t think he’d have the patience for elaborate and meticulous service, offering and cutting cigars for a party of men, but he certainly likes the idea of being humiliated and degraded during a smoking session, serving as a mere receptacle or an amusement for his partner as he wriggles from the pain of hot ash on his body. He’s never had the opportunity to play out his fantasies, but now that he and John have been in a relationship for approximately three weeks, and given his deductions around John’s willingness to indulge in kinky activities including but not limited to power exchange, he feels eager enough that when John comes back from the bar, smelling pleasantly of smoke, he burrows into the man’s neck and immediately hatches a plan.

~*~

Leaving the videos and articles up on John’s computer is easy enough. He doesn’t have to be surreptitious or pretend not to have done it. He just lets John read—and watch—and draw his own conclusions. Choosing the right materials is more important, and he spends several days curating his collection and narrowing down. He picks humiliation-focused examples, for the most part, including one glorious sort of cigar gang bang without the banging.

“This is going to require some explicit negotiation,” John warns, entering the kitchen. Sherlock’s eyes dart up, hopeful.

“You’re interested."

John quirks a little half-exasperated smile. “I’m interested because you’re obviously really into it. But I want to set some boundaries."

“Acceptable.” Sherlock abandons his experiment and turns his attention fully on John. “Such as?"

John laughs, catches his hand, and tugs him into the living room. They settle on the sofa, facing each other, one of John’s feet tucked under Sherlock’s thigh. He feels that warm tug in his belly that he only experiences when John is affectionate without being asked.

“I’m not into the really degrading stuff. It’s clear you like it, but I just can’t do that for…" 

“It’s entirely consensual,” Sherlock sighs, ready to be defensive, cutting him off. John surprises him with a quick, sharp slap across the cheek. Blood rushes to his groin.

“I  _know_  that,” John replies in his Captain voice, almost growling. “But both parties have to consent, and I have my own preferences. Take them or leave them."

Sherlock stares at John, rubbing his cheek in aroused fascination with the tips of his fingers. John’s never done anything like that before—their sex life heretofore has been relatively vanilla. Sherlock almost wants to ignore the whole fetish thing and just jump him. “Take,” he murmurs instead, a little hoarse, letting John continue.

“Good,” John smiles. “I  _am_  interested, but I want to do this my way. Honestly, the idea of sharing you with other men makes me a bit ill. If exhibitionism is your thing, fine… maybe eventually we can find a way to do something around other people, but I still don’t want anyone else touching you like that.” He shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “It may not be my most attractive quality, but I’m aware of it. I’m possessive. Especially now… I’ve only had you a few weeks, and the idea of doing some group thing makes me want to…” He trails off, flexing his fingers. Sherlock imagines John is thinking about punching someone, and almost wishes he could set something like this up just to make it happen. But he’s promised to have at least some consideration for John’s feelings, now. He’s promised to make an effort as part of their new romantic relationship. So he simply nods.

“There don’t need to be others. That isn’t a key element of my… fetish.” He doesn’t like saying that word out loud, he finds—it’s too commonly associated with “freak.” But John plows on, reaching to cup Sherlock’s cheek, the one he slapped, and caresses him tenderly. He leans into the touch, catlike, greedy for John.

“That’s good to hear. I think this could be really hot, just the two of us. I can’t do the really heavy degradation stuff, but if you trust me, I can make it just as intense.” His thumb brushes the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, but he doesn’t push it in when Sherlock opens, just lets him wait there, wanting. “I want to meet your needs in my own way.” Sherlock darts his tongue out, licks the tip of John’s thumb, then nods. 

“Yes, please."

John laughs. “I wish I’d recorded that. The time I got Sherlock Holmes to say ‘please,’” he teases, before reaching for the open laptop and re-situating it on the sofa on Sherlock’s other side. He turns towards it, pulling Sherlock between his legs, more or less in his lap with a leg draped over and bracketing John’s thigh. He then presses the space bar and a video starts up—not the group scene, but a young man looking adoringly up at his Sir, who is much older and smoking in a business shirt and leather chaps.

“Tell me what you like about this,” John murmurs, fingers brushing along Sherlock’s inseam. Sherlock bites his lip, trying not to squirm. 

“The… submission,” he admits. “The power differential." 

“Because he’s on his knees?"

Sherlock shakes his head. “That’s only a small part of it. Because it’s symbolic… he’s on his knees, but he’s also… hot for his partner,” he half-whispers. “It’s obvious to deduce. He gets off on it, the symbolism of the cigar, the level of trust required to participate in this kind of edgeplay. He knows that he’s a receptacle, that he’s been chosen for a purpose."

“Mmm.” John squeezes gently between Sherlock’s legs, and he lets a small moan escape. “What purpose is that?"

“To take his ash,” Sherlock intones softly, hips canting up just slightly.

“What does that mean, taking his ash? Tell me more."

“It means being useful. Being willing, even if it feels too hot and even if it’s dirty. The man… believes that he will be pleasing.” 

“I think he is,” John says in his ear as the man ashes on the boy’s bare collarbones, the boy arching back with his hands on his heels at the man’s command. “I think he’s very pleasing. I think  _you_ could be  _very_  pleasing that way."

Sherlock shivers. “Yes, John. Please."

“Yes Sir,” John corrects, but slips two fingers into his mouth before he can repeat it, stroking his tongue.  “Do you think that’s all the boy’s good at?” he queries, and gives Sherlock a moment to consider before removing the impromptu gag.

“No, Sir,” Sherlock whispers, and then finds his voice again. “I think he’s good at sucking cock, too. But I think… if he’s good at much else, besides that, it’s irrelevant."

“Because that man only wants him for a very particular purpose?"

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock agrees. “I… think the boy likes it."

“Mm,” John replies, hand gripping Sherlock’s cock with a casual possessiveness. “I think he does, too."

 ~*~

It doesn’t surprise Sherlock that John insists on a bit of ritual, a bit of time to get into headspace. It fits John, as a top, and John reminds him that he’s the one in charge, and so Sherlock will indulge John in some little things he wants to be a part of this scene beyond Sherlock’s own particular kinks. Sherlock doesn’t need the reminder. It’s easy enough to comply, to sink into obedience. He strips and kneels at John’s order, facing John, with John in his usual chair in the sitting room. John strokes his face and murmurs in a low voice that Sherlock is his tonight, that Sherlock is going to be a good boy for John. This intimacy, perhaps, _is_  difficult for Sherlock, but John’s words quickly get him over that cliff, almost whispered in his ear. Sherlock is a good toy, a useful accessory. “You have a fairly simple role tonight,” John coos, deceptively gentle. “Don’t screw it up.” 

Sherlock inhales sharply, nuzzles John’s hand. “Impress me tonight,” John demands, and Sherlock immediately _wants_  to. It’s a harder edge than usual for John, and Sherlock wants to know more about it. He winces as John holds his jaw to the point of pain, but lust flares low in his belly when John spits directly onto his tongue, twice. He rolls the end of a cigar on Sherlock’s tongue to wet it, and then shoves Sherlock down, roughly, to the floor, his forehead touching the carpet just under John’s chair and his arse up in the air. It’s meant to be a vulnerable position, Sherlock assumes, though having his bare bum displayed doesn’t really get to him. What does is the way his head is positioned underneath John, shoved aside, John’s boots pressing on his back.

Sherlock's brain is not important tonight. He is tangential, useful only insofar as he serves John’s pleasures. He moans softly, not loud enough to cover the snip of the cutter above his head or the snick of the match. He wishes he could watch John light the cigar, but being in this position instead reinforces his submission, his objectification. The heavy heels of John’s boots dig into his back, abrading his skin with a surprising degree of pain, and Sherlock starts to sink as the sweet scent of smoke invades his perception.

“Get up,” John demands after perhaps a minute of waiting. “On your feet.” Sherlock slides back, pushing up to stand, and gets his first glimpse of John sitting there, entirely in control, with a lit cigar between his fingers. “Hands behind your head." 

Sherlock complies, and the first thing John does, after an inhalation from the cigar, is blow smoke directly over his dick, mouth forming an “o” just centimeters from the head. Sherlock doesn’t stand a chance of being dignified about this. He whimpers, and John smacks his hip.

“Turn around.” The next sensation of hot smoke against his skin is even more shocking. John spreads his cheeks a bit with two fingers in a V and then blows directly over his arsehole. It takes all of his concentration not to jump, nor to beg. He’s adamant about his role as a vessel, as a tool in this kind of a scene, but sometimes the sensations make him want to be more active and beg for more. He steels himself and John does it again.

“Slut,” John teases, lips brushing his hole. Sherlock just bites his lip. John nudges his hip, gets him to turn again, and when he sees John again he’s grinning. “Do you think I could fuck you with this?” John asks, turning the cigar to inspect the cherry, tone all casual. Sherlock hitches in a breath but says nothing.

“Kneel, boy,” John orders, leaning back in the chair. “I need my ashtray."

Sherlock’s dick twitches a little with anticipation. He knees between John’s thighs and John strokes his cheek with a thumb. “Build up some saliva in your mouth,” John says, then ashes into his own hand, rolling the cigar so that the cooler ash at the end falls, but not the burning cherry. He shakes his hand a bit, testing the temperature, and then suddenly yanks Sherlock forward roughly by the hair. John’s cupped hand is shoved against his face before Sherlock can even get his tongue out, but he eagerly licks the ash into his mouth as soon as he does, rocking his hips a bit out of instinct when he first encounters the salty taste and the familiar gritty texture. 

“ _Good_ little ash slut,” John coos, his voice lower than usual, more affectionate than Sherlock’s used to in a scene. But the hand on his hair is perfect, and _John_  is perfect, this mix of caretaker and strict dominant. Sherlock swallows as best he can, licking more up, fighting his body’s tendency to reject the too-dry substance. He gathers more saliva and wets John’s palm, licking it clean. “Such a useful tongue,” John praises, then smears the last bit of wet gray substance over Sherlock’s face, briefly smothering him with his open hand. Sherlock sticks his tongue out again when John’s hand comes away, panting, eager to show how fucking useful he can be.

“Ah-ah,” John teases, laughing a bit. “Water first,” he says, nodding to the bottle next to his chair as he takes another draw from the cigar, hollowing his cheeks. Sherlock sucks down a third of the bottle. It’s thirsty work, and he knows how important taking care of his physical needs is for John. He can indulge that, though he wants more, _needs_  more.

“I’m going to let you suck cock in a minute,” John declares casually once Sherlock has recapped the bottle, and he nearly drops it. He puts it back on the table, a plea almost on his lips, but John grips the back of his neck and he goes silent. “But first,” John continues, releasing his neck and offering his hand, “you can have my trigger finger.” Sherlock groans, loves how John knows just how to get to him. He takes John’s index finger and sucks it with gusto, pressure exaggerated, drawing the pad of the finger over his bottom teeth. He lets his tongue caress the callouses, moaning encouragement when John holds the hot cigar over his back, close enough to feel like it’s burning. John puts the cigar in Sherlock’s hand, then, and unzips his trousers one-handed. As soon as he takes his finger away from Sherlock’s mouth, he’s pushing Sherlock down on his cock, groaning when Sherlock suckles greedily at the head. 

“Atta boy,” John moans. “Keep your mouth busy while I build up some more ash for you. I know—“ his breath hitches, voice going shaky, “—how important it is for you to use your mouth, Sherlock. That oral fixation of yours…"

Sherlock doesn’t deny it. He works John’s shaft languidly, tongue leading, peeking past his lower lip. He knows it’s sluttish and he likes it that way. John used to be so thrilled when a woman would surprise him with being just a little more into sex than he expected, taking it up the arse or doing it in a semi-public place, and Sherlock wants to show John that he can be so much more than those vapid dates. He can put his _intelligence_  into giving head, god dammit. John’s hand in his hair jerks him out of his thoughts, though, yanking him up again.

This time, instead of holding his hand out, he taps Sherlock’s cheek lightly. “Tongue,” he says sharply, and Sherlock sticks it out, tensing in eager anticipation when John holds the cigar out towards him. He holds Sherlock firmly by the hair, rolling the cigar carefully so that the ash falls directly onto Sherlock’s tongue. The heat is intense, his instincts directing him to quickly close his mouth, but he keeps his tongue out for John.

“Good boy,” John purrs, then grabs him tightly by the throat and smokes for a minute, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s they widen, his body urged to panic at the lack of oxygen. He forces himself not to jerk too hard, not to actually fight, but he whimpers with what breath he does have and his lower body twists even as the rest of him remains still. “Mm,” John grins, finally letting go. “Swallow.” Sherlock pulls air in through his nose, swallows down the ash with several tries. “I like watching you struggle,” John says in that same calm, assured tone he’s been using all evening. _Doctor voice_ , Sherlock thinks, and how funny it is that _that_  is actually even hotter than Captain voice, mid-scene.

When Sherlock’s done swallowing, John slaps him casually across the face a few times, leaning forward in his chair. When he leans back again, he props a boot against Sherlock’s chest, and starts to stroke his own dick. Sherlock licks his lips, whimpering. He wants to suck that cock. He wants to be responsible for John’s pleasure so _badly_. John kicks him instead, the entire sole of his boot slamming forward into Sherlock's pectoral muscle. He does it a few more times, calmly wanking and smoking, and watching Sherlock.

“Look me in the eye, Sherlock Holmes,” John orders, his voice quiet but demanding attention. “I own you."

It’s in that moment that Sherlock is well and truly gone.

~*~

The rest of the cigar proceeds much the same way, though John lets Sherlock suck him in between rounds of ash, holding him steady by the back of the neck. Soothing words tell him to zone out, to accept his role. He spends the remainder of the scene with his mouth full of cock, ash, or water from the bottle, and he couldn’t be happier. When John finishes the cigar, though, he actually puts it in a real ashtray, rather than using the last of the ash in some perverted finale, and Sherlock stares up at him in disbelief.

John laughs. “You don’t need it,” he pronounces, stroking Sherlock’s face. “Tell me why, smart boy. What’s your job?"

Sherlock frowns, because the obvious answer to that is that his job is to take John’s ash, _all_ of it. But he clamps down on the petulant response and realizes what John is looking for. “To please you,” he says, voice hoarse from ash and disuse. John beams at him, and Sherlock feels a very warm, foreign feeling of pride in his chest as John guides Sherlock to his fingers, letting him suck them and taste the smoke that lingers on John’s skin.

“I cannot believe,” John murmurs when Sherlock is done, and he’s feeding Sherlock his cock again, “that you wrote a treatise on _tobacco_  ash.” Sherlock refrains from rolling his eyes, and swallows around John’s shaft instead.


End file.
